


bird by bird

by meridies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies
Summary: You have to make each moment count,Wilbur once said to him,because otherwise you leave no mark. And no one will even remember you were there.or, Tommy reunites with Wilbur in the afterlife, and rediscovers the joys of life again.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 56
Kudos: 538





	bird by bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aenqa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenqa/gifts).



> i know pretty much everyone is writing a fic like this, but i wanted to put my own spin on it, so here we are. 
> 
> cw: this fic talks about c!tommy's suicidal tendencies, so pls be aware there are talks of suicidal thoughts and references to abuse (though no graphic descriptions)
> 
> inspired by the ideas brought up in [this post.](https://aenqa.tumblr.com/post/644505654263955456/im-as-devastated-over-tommys-death-as-anyone) it's not exactly that, but hopefully this scratches the surface. enjoy <3

There is nothing fair about death.

Even though Wilbur had once said to him, hands on his shoulders, _we all end up on the same path, don’t we? We all end up in the same place once we’re dead._

That was long ago, when their country was young and bright. Tommy was young, too. Barely fifteen - he and Wilbur had celebrated his birthday just that past week.

_Therefore,_ Wilbur continued, _you have to make each moment count. Because otherwise you leave no mark. And no one will even remember you were there._

That was Wilbur’s motto, for those early months. _Make each moment count._

Tommy was young, the world was new. There was opportunity aplenty to be seized by the horns. He was going to make a mark, he vowed, both Tommy and Wilbur. Their country would outlive them, a permanent mark of everything they stood for. 

But somehow, here he ends up, all the same. 

The worst part is that he has lived through years of torment, and impossibly, _this_ is where he ends up kicking the bucket. Not the two wars. Not the months of exile. Not the day’s journey through the freezing tundra with nothing but ripped clothes and one shoe. Not even the aftermath of a nuclear blast. 

He lives through all of those things, and his actual death ends up being - unremarkable. It’s just him. The lava. The obsidian. Dream’s fists. All those things combined and Tommy is gasping for breath, curled on his side, face pressed into - into damp earth, not slick obsidian - a breeze on the back of his neck, not the oppressive heat of lava - and - and -

Where is he, again? 

Tentatively, Tommy catalogues the sensations he is experiencing. There’s grass, washed out of color and scratchy, beneath his hands; there’s grey mist, sinking around him; overhead, the moon looks down at him serenely. His hands are free of scratches and they’re pale, paler than usual. 

Dream must have finished the job.

_Oh,_ Tommy thinks, stunned. 

“Third time’s the charm,” a familiar voice says, “I really shouldn’t be surprised, should I?” 

This shouldn’t be real. Shouldn't be possible by any stretch of the imagination, shouldn’t be happening, and yet there he is.

“You,” Tommy whispers.

Wilbur Soot, in the flesh, spreads his arms and smiles. 

“Welcome home, little brother.” 

Tommy stares and doesn’t move any closer. 

Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet, legs trembling like a newborn deer. It’s been a while since he hasn’t felt chronic pain. He almost doesn’t know how to function without it grounding him. 

There are so many things Tommy wants to say to his brother, but the only thing he manages is this, full of pain: “You told me you would be back. _”_

Wilbur’s smile falters; his arms fall. He sticks his hands into his pockets and tilts his head at Tommy. Something in his gaze is curious, speculating. 

“So I did,” he says eventually. 

It’s a moment that’s burned into Tommy’s memory; golden and bright, watching Tubbo give his speech on the podium, as Wilbur clapped a hand proudly to his back and said, _I’ll be back!_

But he was never back. The next time Tommy saw him, he was dead. 

Phil hadn’t looked regretful about it, and there was no time to grieve, because in the next instant, Techno - his friend, his _family_ \- lit the world on fire, and there was nowhere to go but down _._

“You didn’t come back,” Tommy croaks.

Wilbur’s laugh is dry and splintered. “Would it help if I told you I was planning on it?” 

“Planning on dying, or planning on returning?” 

Wilbur’s smile fades fully. 

He doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment, until finally:

“Oh, Toms, what happened to you?”

Tommy’s eyes sting.

What _has_ happened to him? 

“What happened to you?” Wilbur repeats, more urgently, and he places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, warm and comforting and _homelike._

“So much,” Tommy mumbles, “I don’t know how to tell you all of it.”

Wilbur’s hand shifts to the small of his back. Tommy wants to move away, but a deeper, hurting part of him leans into it. 

“Come with me,” Wilbur says, “And we’ll talk.”

He steps back and extends his hand. 

Against his better judgement, Tommy takes it.

Wilbur takes him down a path that forms in front of them, and it never slopes up or down, and it meanders from left to right whenever Tommy turns in that direction. There is nothing around them for ages, only endless grey mist. Though as soon as Tommy wonders _how empty is this place,_ dappled fields and shrubbery spring from the ground like he brought them to life. 

“Do you recognize it?” Wilbur asks, after an eon of silence. 

Tommy shakes his head.

“Look closer.”

The path, for the first time, slopes upward, until the two brothers come to the peak of a hill. 

Tommy looks down onto - 

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Just like it was,” Wilbur says proudly.

It’s the valley where they first founded their country, where they first parked Wilbur’s van and decided to create a home. 

In the real world it’s changed, nearly unidentifiable. But it’s so similar in the afterlife as to how it used to be - the lakes not yet drained, the world born anew. 

“It’s very different,” Tommy says, not recognizing his own voice, “It’s so small.”

“It reminds me of when we were younger,” Wilbur says.

“Do you miss it?” 

“Sometimes,” Wilbur allows, “But not right now.”

“Hm.”

“Come on,” Wilbur gestures, “Let’s continue.”

Structures sprout from the ground like flowers in the first days of spring; the path Tommy helped build with his bare hands stretches over the river and slopes downward. Wilbur saunters on; Tommy follows, hesitant, uncertain.

“I don’t like being here,” Tommy says. 

“Really?”

“Too many bad memories.”

“Strange,” Wilbur says, as they pass the caravan, with its frosted windows and leaky tire, “It’s home.”

Wilbur stares at the scenery as they pass, but Tommy finds it impossible to tear his eyes away from his brother. 

He hasn’t seen Wilbur in so, solong.

“Stop staring,” Wilbur says, when he notices.

“Sorry,” Tommy says, and doesn’t. 

Wilbur sits, feet dipping into the lake beside the van, and Tommy sits next to him. 

“Well?" Wilbur says. "Tell me everything.” 

Tommy tries to start, and finds that he’s unable to. No words will ever be able to explain what has happened to him. What he has lost. What he needs to grieve.

And, as if sensing his inner thoughts, Wilbur reminds, “You don’t need to start from the beginning. Anywhere is fine.”

Those words are what gives Tommy the final push over the edge, and he starts, strangely enough, with, “I built a hotel after L’Manburg exploded.”

From there, it’s an endless spiral, teetering downwards. Pointless details that Wilbur doesn’t need to know - that Sam Nook forbade roof access for the hotel, that Jack is in the process of stealing it, that Tommy never managed to quit his habit of picking at his nails, that he still refilled the bird feeder outside his home daily. And once he gets started thinking about home, the details only multiply - the carrot patch that he'll never get the chance to replant. A wobbly section of the fence he's been meaning to fix but never did.

And before he knows it, he’s saying things to Wilbur like _I don’t think Techno ever loved me, I don’t know if he ever will. I sent him a message but he never responded, and I think if I go back he would kill me in cold blood. I only wanted Phil to love me but instead it turns out I died on his birthday. What a shit birthday present, right? But maybe this is what he wanted. Did he want me dead? I think he did. I don’t know. I sure wanted myself dead. I wanted to jump right off that netherrack and -_

The words spill out, uncontrollable, and Tommy clamps a hand over his mouth, bites down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood, then another hand, because never - _never_ \- had he said that, not when he was at his lowest, not when it was only him and the night sky - never had he told someone out loud about wanting to die. 

Thankfully, Wilbur doesn’t remark on any of those secrets. Instead, he picks the smallest, most insignificant detail to comment on. 

“It’s Phil’s birthday,” he says, “Really?” 

Tommy nods mutely.

“Is he doing anything to celebrate?” 

And - oh. Wilbur doesn’t know.

“I wouldn’t know,” Tommy says, “I’ve been trapped in prison with Dream.”

Wilbur blinks, takes a moment to register. To Tommy's great appreciation, he doesn't ask about that. Only asks, “Did Phil celebrate without you?”

“Phil and I haven’t talked in.” A quick calculation. “A long time.”

“Ah.”

“I invited him to the opening of my hotel,” Tommy’s tone is melancholy. “He and Techno didn’t show up.”

“That's rude of them. I would have shown up.”

“That’s all well and good,” Tommy says, “But you aren’t there, so it's meaningless.” 

“I'll be back eventually,” Wilbur shrugs, “Won't I see your hotel then?”

Tommy doesn’t register it for a long moment, until he jerks away, “Back?”

“Back alive,” Wilbur confirms. 

“But - didn’t Dream lie?”

“Oh, come on,” Wilbur says airily, “Of course he didn’t lie. Dream will bring me back, he’ll bring _you_ back. Look on the bright side Toms, you’re going back! You can fix all those things. Wish Phil a happy birthday while you're at it, you know?” 

Wilbur’s smile is thin and forced. Tommy edges away. 

“Go back?” 

Wilbur nods.

“Back to life.”

Wilbur nods again.

“But what if,” Tommy pauses, “What if I don’t want to?” 

Wilbur laughs. As if it's a joke. “What do you mean?”

“I mean - what if I don’t want to go back to life?”

Wilbur doesn’t say anything, and Tommy continues, voice wet and strangled, “What if I’d rather stay dead?”

Wilbur’s face twists into something painful.

Distantly, he says, “I still don’t think I know what you mean.” 

Tommy means this - the afterlife - is merciful and peaceful and still. He can run his fingers through the tall grass and watch the moon, set in the sky like a rhinestone, and the time of day will never change; nothing will hurt him here. 

But in the real world, the _alive_ world, there’s -

There’s a pair of rain boots neatly placed by his doorway. A bed that Tommy never remembered to make, a chest system he never bothered to organize, a jukebox well-worn with good use.

There’s also: a high-pitched ringing in his ears, pain lancing down his side whenever he raises his left arm over his head, scars on his hand from shattered glass, panicked blindness that washes over him whenever he thinks too deeply about the campsite from exile. 

There’s Ranboo.

Maybe. 

If Tommy’s stretching, maybe Sam. 

But Sam heard him calling for help, screaming, yelling _please, please,_ **_please!_ **at the top of his lungs, and Sam did nothing. 

And there’s Tubbo.

… is there?

“I think I’d just rather stay here,” Tommy manages, voice thick, “It’s quiet. And nice. And you’re here, besides.” 

“But you can’t stay dead,” Wilbur says, disbelieving, “You just can’t.” 

“But I _want_ to.”

A pause.

“Explain,” Wilbur says tersely. 

_Because_ _I wanted - because I stood there for thirty minutes - because of the Christmas lights, I would have seen them if I had died - and maybe I would have seen you, too - and everyone would be so much happier. And I would be happier. And there would be nothing left to hurt me._

He tries and tries and his throat catches on the words and the only thing he’s able to choke out is, “I’d just rather be dead.” 

“Tommy,” Wilbur says urgently, disbelieving, “You _have_ to go back.”

And Tommy - 

Thinks about everything - 

About the hotel, and the snow, and the crater, and the way his ears still ring from explosions, even weeks later -

And he says, “No.” 

_“No?”_

“No.”

“But that's not right,” Wilbur argues, "It has to be you." 

_It doesn’t_ , Tommy thinks wistfully, _it never had to be me._

“Don’t give me that look,” Wilbur says, anger rising. 

Sullen: "I'm not giving you any look.”

“So you’re just going to _stay dead?”_

Tommy sets his jaw and nods.

“You’re going to let Dream _win?”_

Tommy nods.

There's awful, bitter silence. 

“You changed,” Wilbur says eventually, painfully, “Oh, you’ve changed so much.” 

Tommy swallows and looks away. 

For some reason, Wilbur’s disappointment has always struck deeper than anything else. 

He can hear Wilbur suck in a deep breath, exhale, and gather himself.

Wilbur turns to him and demands, tone sharper, "Give me a reason."

Tommy's nearly startled into silence. 

Wilbur continues, angry and volatile and familiar, so much more recognizable than the gentleness from earlier, “Tell me _exactly_ why you want to die.” 

“I’m already dead.”

“You don’t - ” Wilbur makes an incomprehensible noise of anger - “You know damn well what I mean. Tell me why.”

“I - I can’t.” 

“Why?”

Tommy tries, desperately, “Because - ”

“Because what?”

“Because of Dream,” Tommy rushes out, the words burning his mouth, “Because I can’t let him control me. Not anymore.” 

"Dream is the one who made you want to kill yourself?” 

It's a fine line between a statement and a question, so Tommy nods hesitantly. 

“You want to stay dead because you still want to die,” Wilbur summarizes, everything Tommy hinted at but never said, “And you never got the chance to kill yourself when you were alive, so this is your way of taking control. By staying dead.”

Tommy feels burnt, vulnerable, scrubbed raw. He makes a mumbled noise of assent.

“And what will you do when Dream drags you back?” Wilbur asks. “When people try to revive you? It’s a rather hard thing to resist, I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll say no,” Tommy whispers.

“Like I did?”

“It’s like you said,” Tommy laughs, jagged, “I’ve always wanted to be like you, haven’t I?” 

A wounded sound escapes from Wilbur's throat. Tommy feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes and looks at the ground. 

“I was wrong when I told you that you would never be president,” Wilbur says eventually. "I think you would have done a fine job at it.”

Halfheartedly, Tommy shrugs. 

“You have to go back,” Wilbur continues, determined and fierce, “Because the world needs you, Tommy, and you've come too far to give up now.” 

“That’s not a good reason.”

“So come up with a better one.”

Tommy feels as if Wilbur has asked him to bottle mist. Miserably, he says, “There isn’t one.” 

“Try.” 

“There’s nothing. I can’t.”

“Really?”

“There’s nothing,” Tommy repeats insistently, “I can’t.” 

Wilbur doesn’t say anything. He hums, tilts his head towards the sky.

Finally: “I never took you for a coward, TommyInnit.”

A muted spark of anger. “I'm not a coward.”

“Yes you are,” Wilbur says, “You’re a coward and a liar and a traitor. Tell me why you deserve to be alive.”

“I _can’t!”_

“Stop saying that,” Wilbur says, an edge to his voice, “You’re the brightest fuckin’ kid I know, so use that brain for once and _think_ of something!”

Tommy clenches his teeth. Wilbur’s scorn is familiar. It burns his skin. It makes him think of all the times Wilbur was cruel to him and all the times he was kind, of that time when they were walking along the path towards L’Manburg, with Wilbur’s words of _you’re too dangerous. You’re too loud, you talk too much, you’re too loud, you run your mouth._

“I want to shout at Jack Manifold,” Tommy grits, “And I want to tell him what a piece of shit he is for taking over my hotel.”

Wilbur nods approvingly.

“Good,” he says, “Now give me two more reasons.”

It takes a lifetime to think of more reasons, but the list grows, and at one point Tommy screams at him, boiling over, _you’re horrible! You hurt me just as much as they did!_

Wilbur shoves him back and shouts, _and_ _I want you fucking alive, so you can either whine and act like a child or you can_ ** _think!_**

So Tommy thinks: shoveling snow from the walkways of Snowchester, Puffy’s idea of preserving L’Manburg for the future, giving Wilbur a proper grave, talking to Sam Nook, changing his home back to stone instead of dirt, replanting that carrot patch, befriending Ranboo, and _-_

And Wilbur says, “Keep going, even when you think you’ve run out of ideas,” and the list of every brilliant thing grows, from ten items to twenty to fifty to a hundred to the smallest things: _construction cranes_ and _writing with fresh ink_ and _Niki’s lemonade on a hot summer day_ and _the smell after it rains_ and _shitty hot chocolate powder_ and _turning all the lights off, closing your eyes, and listening to a new record for the first time._

As he talks, L’Manburg changes around them.

What once was an empty, grassy plain when Tommy first arrived in the afterlife now becomes the shadowy, bustling city that it was, right before Wilbur destroyed it. A familiar stage looms over them, but before long, the land transforms itself into a crater. Teetering, cranelike structures sprout from a lake, which empties in the next instant. The ground carves itself away underneath their feet, diving down to bedrock level. It leaves the land hollowed out, empty, like someone has ripped out the heart of the earth. 

Tommy falls silent. He clutches the list of reasons in his mind and runs his tongue over the words he has just spoken. 

Wilbur is the first to break the silence. 

“So this is what it looks like now,” he mutters. 

With a start, Tommy realizes that Wilbur is seeing the remnants of his country for the first time. He has no idea what happened to it after he died. 

Tommy follows his gaze down towards the earth. 

“It’s, uh. Not pretty.”

“And Dream did this?”

“Dream, Techno, and Phil,” Tommy says. Their names taste strange in his mouth now. 

“Huh.”

A beat.

“Sorry for what happened to your country.”

“Our.”

“Hm?”

“ _Our_ country. You founded it with me.”

Another beat.

“I miss you,” Tommy whispers, “I miss you so much.” 

The smile Wilbur gives him is mournful. 

“I know,” he says quietly. “I miss you too.”

A long time ago, far away in the past, Wilbur told him, _we all end up on the same path. You have to make each moment count._

Tommy’s death wasn’t fair. Wilbur’s death wasn’t fair. No one’s death is fair. There is nothing fair about sitting together on this path, staring at the remnants of their country, unable to change the course of time. 

But here they are. There is nowhere to go but forward. 

“So,” Tommy breathes, “What happens now?”

“You go on,” Wilbur says simply. 

Tommy considers that. 

“How do I know when I’m ready?” 

Wilbur stands up, brushes the earth from his coat. He seems so much younger, now that they've talked. Nothing like the mythical general he was when Tommy met him. They're just a pair of barely-adults finding their way in the world, wondering how to move on. 

“You just will,” he says. 

Tommy wants to say so much more to his brother. So many things he never had the opportunity to say. 

But Wilbur turns and disappears into the endless mist before Tommy has the chance.

So Tommy stays, cradling the memories close to his chest. 

He stays there for a long time. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed, please leave kudos/comments, i really appreciate them!
> 
> also, here is a list of [suicide hotlines](https://www.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines) by country if you ever need one <3


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